They'll All Die In The End
by Nixing a Rose
Summary: Some say it's easier for a loved one to die quickly. Some don't. Implied Stenny and Kyman.
1. Band Aid Quick

A/N: Yay.

* * *

Band-Aid Quick

It's funny, the way he'll be here one second and gone the next. You'd think I'd get over it after seventeen years, but I guess not. You never know what'll set him off, though. One day, a faulty condom broke and implanted itself in his ear canal, causing a brain hemorrhage. Another time, a squirrel had taken a shit and it fell down his throat while he was breathing, cleverly asphyxiating and killing him before he could begin to try to dislodge the object. This time, a bird crashed through the window, lodging its hard beak into his chest cavity.

Sometimes, I feel as though the world is conspiring against me.

As if it's not bad enough that I'm _screwing _him, he also has to die within the next couple of days.

Can I not get at least _one _week of fucking and loving?

Guess not.

No one even bothered with a funeral. Why should we; he'd be back soon enough. Every few hours someone would come in, whisper 'Bastards, you killed Kenny' (even though that's _so _my fucking line) and then slip back out.

And the cycle repeated.

**It has now been two days. **

I'm scared shitless.

But some strange part of me knows he'll be back. You know, the gut feeling you get when you _know _that somethings gonna happen? Like the sun rise, or living to see the next day.

**It's been a week.**

I take back what I said before; I've gotten wiser. You don't _know _you'll see the next day. You don't _know_ if the final breath you take before you go to sleep will be your fucking_ last_.

You don't know your boyfriend will always be by your side.

**It's been a month.**

People say I'm a hollow shell now.

I tell them to fuck off.

People say I need to move on.

I say I moved on in their mom.

People say he's never coming back.

I stare blankly at the wall.

**It's been six months.**

I'm

wasting

away.

He's gone.

Why should I stay?

I'm contemplating

why I'm hesitating.

No, it's true.

I'll do anything to see you.

**It's been a year.**

_Here lies Stan Marsh. A friend, a son, a brother, and a co-worker. May he seek his one._


	2. Slow Like a Poisoned Bullet in The Leg

Slow Like a Poisoned Bullet in The Leg

There's no healing poison running through my veins.

Only the killing one.

I don't want them to bother with chemo: costs to much. I don't want my ending days to be a strain on my child and boyfriend's lives.

They say it has nothing to do with my fucking diabetes, but I have my own theory.

The world just loves to fuck me over.

Get a child, lose a wife.

Get a boyfriend, lose your family.

Be happy, be dead.

My life is a fucking board game.

Roll the die and watch what you get. Nine? That's how many spaces you move forward. Oh look, you landed on a move two more spaces tile! Lucky you! And you feel so damn lucky, that when you roll a three and end up going back two squares, you don't mind. But going back that that far lands you in the 'go straight to shit' tile. And here you are, in the fucking hospital in a fucking itchy gown, watching as everything moves on without you.

Sure, you were a contender in the game. But so many other people were too. So many other people will live to see their kid graduate. So many other people will get to see this Christmas. And a few will stop. They'll stop in recognition of you, but they'll keep playing. They'll keep playing, just as they'll keep living.

But among the fellow people stuck in the shit with you, some of them have a special card or roll the right number. Some of them roll leg amputation, and they're hindered but they move on. Some people, such as yourself, role pancreatic cancer. And the world is over.

The game is fucking over.

But you only think on this at night, when Jellabell is tucked in safely by your lover. You only think of this while a couple of miles away, he's thinking of you. But you can't know this. No, because the game has fucking _rules_. Such as you can't ever _know_ and if you've got this much in the bank, you've got a better chance. But just below that line, just fucking below, and it's game over.

Eric told you that they wouldn't mind the financial stress, as long as they could keep you here. And now you feel fucking selfish, because you don't want to. You're holding back from them what they have every right to pursue.

And the game of life is very much like Russian roulette. You never know when the bullet's gonna come up.

And the bullet's hit.

May death have mercy.


End file.
